Americans vs. the Scots

I'm a dart genius.

I always knew I'd be good at something, and apparently that something is darts. After only a few games, I've already become an equal for Jonmikel, who has been playing for something like 100 years.

So we were hanging out at our new favorite pub, the Blind Poet, playing some well-deserved darts and drinking some well-deserved beers (we've bee going light, for our livers' and girths' sakes). An older gentleman, wine in hand and brogue in voice, comes over to observe our game. He's friendly, and teases us continuously, and we have no real idea what he's saying. Between the Scottish and booze accents, it's understandably difficult for us Yanks. He picked out our American accents rights away and eventually cajoled his buddies into joining us. As we wound down our game, he decided that it was time to settle the score. Americans vs. Scots. As never before seen on TV.

And so we begin.

There's not much to tell except that we killed them the first game, they killed us the second game, and we should have killed them the tie-breaking third game but managed to only pull off a meager win. The more the first man drank, the better he seemed to get. He could barely stand and had to be told each time what to go for by his more somber and sober buddy, but somehow still managed to hit the bulls-eye on a regular basis. I can only imagine how good he is sober. There was plenty of friendly trash talking going on, and I was bluntly informed that as a woman I should stand by my sex and vote for Hillary Clinton and that I should also brush my hair more. Rounds of drinks were had by all (paid for by our new friends, who were kind enough to refuse our attempts at purchasing the next rounds). From what I could understand in their thick brogues, we were the neatest thing they had seen in years. Americans playing darts, who would have thought? Surely, we didn't learn to play darts in the States; they don't play darts in America, right? Quite the oddity.

After the 3rd game, it was well past all our bedtimes (9 maybe?), so we shook hands, hugged, introduced ourselves by name to Everett, our original companion, and headed out.